


Sensation

by humanveil



Series: a greenhouse filled with ghosts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Character Study, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-01 05:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11479236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: She grows to crave it.





	Sensation

Her sadistic streak has always been there – simmering softly beneath the surface. Hidden, so people don’t see. So she doesn’t get into trouble.

And then, she meets _Him_.

He brings it out in her; teaches her what she needs to let it flourish. Guides her until she’s capable, until she’s feared. Until she can tear people apart with barely a whisper.

She considers it a great privilege, to be taught by His hand. It’s a testament to her talent, for He wouldn’t bother if she held no potential.

They start off slow. Minor curses, things she already knows, but they make their way through His list. Darker curses, poisons, _unforgivables_.

She grows to crave it. The rush of adrenaline, the inexplicable sensation of having a body at her feet; sobbing, convulsing, deteriorating. All by her hand, by her _power_.

She can never get enough. Whatever its form, she loves it. Adores it. Thinks about it, always.

A bloodlust, they say. Psychotic, they say. Deranged. She doesn’t care. It’s a talent, what she can do. A form of art. A _skill_.

They wish they could do what she can, wish they had the stomach to watch and laugh as bodies writhe and convulse, as blood and vomit and urine mix together on the ground’s surface. A product of fear. Of terror.

 _Of her_.

He gifts her a dagger, with a gleaming blade and a beautifully crafted handle. It fits in her hand perfectly, the weight easy to wield. To move however she likes.

She cherishes it, the item her favourite form of torment. Spells are all well and good, but she prefers the intimacy of the dagger. Likes being able to touch, to see the fear in their eyes. To watch as the blade presses into her victim’s skin, a fine line of crimson following, the blood bubbling at the wound before it drips, down, down, down. She likes being able to smell it, the familiar metallic aroma like an affectionate touch. Likes being able to kiss scarred flesh and taste their horror.

It’s the perfect warm-up. An opening act before she uses her wand; the words He taught her on the tip of her tongue. Her magic dark and intense.

She whispers the cruciatus curse like an endearment, the answering shrieks like a thank you in her ears. For they _should_ be thankful to experience the product of His wisdom.


End file.
